Crisp like:
A stark black collar
steaming fresh from a hot iron.
In the day to come
the rushed clicking of a calculator doing
Old Man Johnson's taxes
toasty coffee and instant ramen
but for now
it is proud and austere.

Crisp like:
October, the churning earth stings your ­nostrils
and makes your lungs cold at an intake of breath
and you watch the steam curl out from your face and disappear.
This is New England, the trees are fire
and the sky flows,
so smooth
it can be sipped through a straw, blue honey.
The sun mercifully leaves behind a warm glow on your chest
but your nose is not so lucky;
the wind nips at its bare curve.

Crisp like:
A fresh Gala apple
puncture the satin lust of its skin
then crunch
taste the sweet tartness spread across your tongue.

Crisp like:
Music, the newest Beyoncé pulses out of headphones
it's almost so loud it hurts
but you don't mind.
The sounds are spikes, the words are livid
if you liked it
then you shoulda' put a ring on it.
They've long kissed the sandy whisper of Grandpa's record player
and dad's rusty guitar music
goodbye.